


Recovering from Nightmares

by Natsumi_Wakabe



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Artistic Liberties, Gen, Nightmares, Old work, dealing with the job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:13:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natsumi_Wakabe/pseuds/Natsumi_Wakabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all shared the pain and scars of the job. They just found different ways to keep going, and ways of reminding themselves why they do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reid

**Author's Note:**

> Another old work. Unchanged from original form. Just a brief bunny that died too soon, before the fifth season ended, so some of the things wil be a bit invalid due to things like Prentiss and JJ coming and going.

When Spencer Reid gets nightmares, it's never about the normal things that people worry about. When he gets nightmares, it's about things that truly and deeply terrify him beyond all doubt. Sometimes it's about his mother, other times it's about what might one day happen to one of his team mates. But most of the time, it's about the ones he couldn't save. It's about the people that he couldn't help, couldn't free from their tormentors or from what many would consider just punishment. He'll see faces, hear voices, and sometimes, when it's really bad, he'll feel them.  
Some nights, especially after a really bad case, he'll see a lot of the different serial killers and rapist that he's faced down on this job, and the endings to their stories will change, for the worse. He'll see them get away, or they won't make it in time to save the last victim. Sometimes they manage to get one of his teammates shot down, or drowned or burned. But always, he remembers the look in their eyes. He'll remember that gleam in their eyes when they talk about how they killed. He'll see how their faces light up or glow or just radiate this morbid, twisted and wrong contentment with what they've done.  
Other times, he'll see the families and friends who have had to lose their loved ones-either to the killer or the killer's need to do what he or she did. He can still remember so many families after their personal devastation. Mothers who had to go to identify the ravaged, tainted and dead bodies of their daughters. Fathers who had to bury their sons long before their time. Sons and daughters who lost their parents, unable to understand why, in this world where people talked of safety and security, they had lost their safe haven, their home, their guardian, their friends and the ones that they knew would always love them, to someone that could not and did not care that they would have to live on without their parents. He'll see countless small towns, all of them in shock, suddenly much more aware of how close evil is to home, and afraid of their own shadows. But in every vision like this, it's the eyes that get him the most; the way they have this haunted look in them, as though they aren't completely there anymore, too deep in hurt, the shock, the disbelief and the total and absolute and consuming pain that will never go away because they lost someone. And that's a look he can't forget, not for as long as he lives. Because for him, it's proof that somehow, he failed them.  
But the worst, the worst of his nightmares are when it's the children. He'll see them, countless children, all of them young and innocent, staring up at him with smiles one minute, clean and pure and safe. But then, he'll turn around and there will be the same child he just saw, bruised, battered or bloody, but always hurting. Sometimes he'll see gun shot wounds. Other times he sees the evidence of what was done to them: burn marks, blood covering their clothes at the crotch area, bruises from chains or ropes or hands. He'll see their tear stained faces, their eyes still wet with tears, but the eyes themselves dark, the color leeched out of them from death. He'll hear them crying to him. They all cried different things. Some cried for help, others screamed that it was his fault for not saving them. Some cried, asking why he didn't save them, why he wasn't strong enough, smart enough, good enough, better than their torturers. And inside, he'll hear his nine year old self asking him why? Why couldn't he do it? What happened? Why did they have to suffer? Why? Why, why, why why whywhywhywhy-  
And then he wakes up.  
At first, it's in a haze of confusion and panic, like suddenly he's back in that cabin after having woken up from another night of seeing Tobias. But then, he'll do a quick pat down: his feet are fine, his head only slightly aches, the area where he used to shoot up is scared over and beginning to smooth, and he's laying down on his bed in his room, safe, secure, alone. He's all right. It's okay, they've caught bad guys, they've saved people and they've made home just a little safer.  
But still, he'll see them all around him, the ghosts of so many lost souls, and for a moment, he wants to quit, he wants to leave. He wants to go back home to Las Vegas, see his mom and talk to her about how he can't do this anymore, how he can't last here, how the pressure is getting to him.  
But then, he turns his head to the nightstand by his bed, and he'll see the pictures that he keeps there for nights like this. He sees JJ, Elle, Garcia and Morgan standing beside him, holding up peace signs, smiling as he sheepishly grins at the camera, his birthday cake hat on his head. He sees himself and Gideon, at the academy when he first met him. He sees his newest team photo, with Hotch, Morgan, Garcia, Prentiss, himself and Rossi.  
And then he remembers those he did save. The ones that were still alive, healing, and were going to make it. And he reminds himself: I can't go when there's still more to do. So for a while, he stares up at the ceiling as his mind calms down, until his heart stops beating so fast, and the voices fade into the background like they always do. He whispers something that he can never really remember saying, turns over so that he's facing the pictures and goes back to sleep, knowing that in the morning he's got more things to do, more cases to solve and more lives to save.  
And his dreams are peaceful.


	2. Derek Morgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan finds his peace by tearing down walls. Literally

For the most part, Derek Morgan does his best to make sure that the nightmares aren't able to reach him. When he can, he'll spend most nights, he'll lose try to lose himself in a club, or a one night fling, burying himself and his mind into the demanding and enjoyably tiring acts of flirting, dancing and/or sex. Other times, he'll go to the gym, making sure his body and mind are completely useless as son as his head hits the pillow after a quick shower. When he's on a case, he'll lose himself in the mission, causing the ghosts that would usually haunt him to disappear from his mind, as he focuses completely on catching the next unsub. He'll dedicate himself completely to the task of getting the newest bastard, and occasional bitch, off the streets and somewhere they can't hurt anyone else again.  
But sometimes, it's not enough. Some nights, they will come back, clawing at him, getting up in his face with their blue faces, cold and freakishly rubber like from their premature deaths. They'll scream, cry, beg and curse at him, asking questions he has no answer to and accusing him of things he can't deny because of the overwhelming guilt and pain and hurt and shame and failure and a desperate wish that it didn't have to happen, that it didn't have to be them and so much more that he can't put into words because it hurts so much that he can't even think about it or he's so overwhelmed by too many emotions for him to handle.  
Other nights he can feel Buford's hands all over him, just like when he was still trapped by him, trapped in that city, trapped by the death of his father, by his need to be there to protect his mother and sisters, by circumstances beyond his control and a sick, perverted man that he should have been able to trust and love and look up to, not fear and be ashamed of for something that that bastard did to him.  
When Morgan finally drags himself out of his personal hell, he bolts up, often with a small yell, only to look around and realize it was all a dream. If he's with a girl, he'll apologize and say something like he's fine, but right now he's got to go. If he's home, he'll throw on a shirt, often on backwards, grab some pants, and then grab his keys to one of his properties.  
He'll usually drive over but if his hands are still shaking when he reaches the car, he'll usually just run to the nearest one.  
When he gets inside, he grabs the hammer he keeps in all of them-a normal hammer, maybe a foot in length; hanging behind a coat rack he keeps there for days when he knows it's going to be messy. Then, he goes to one of the walls that he keeps up for nights like this.  
He smashes the wall to pieces, every strike of the hammer bashing in the face of some horrible, evil monster in human skin. Occasionally, tears will spill over, but at that point, he's beyond caring. He'll mumble things to himself sometimes, and keep hitting and destroying the wall in front of him as he slowly destroys every single demon that's ever had its claws in his soul.  
He keeps doing it, going down the line of everyone that's ever hurt a child that he's caught, of every single pedophile that dared to crawl out of whatever hole they came out of. Until he get to Buford.  
For a moment, he freezes, unable to do anything as his brain suddenly stops working. He stares, emotionless, until his mind suddenly brings forth his cabin and what happened there. Then, he brings back the hammer and slams it into the wall, bringing his whole body into it.  
He'll be still for a minute, body heaving slightly as he pants before he sinks to the ground. Slowly, his mind will come back to him, and once he feels steady enough, he puts the hammer back, grabs the broom, dust pan and a plastic garbage bag and drags them over to the now destroyed wall. He sweeps up the mess, puts it in the garbage bag and if he has the supplies, he'll tape over the holes in the wall.  
For now, he's fine-better than he will be for the rest of the week because now he's faced down his tormentors and can let go of everything. He'll close his eyes and for a moment he'll see his father. He'll see his father standing there, just as strong and as brave as he was in his childhood. He'll see the people he's saved and the people who were helped to find at least a small bit of closure. And he'll remember all the people that are behind bars now, and he'll remember.  
What I do saves lives. I can't save them all, but I sure as hell can try.  
So he'll grab his keys, lock the door and go home, where he'll get ready for work, because tomorrow is another day to save a life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be for Hotch. See you next week.


	3. Hotchner

For those who didn't know him, Aaron Hotchner didn't seem to need anything to recover from all the shit that his job puts him through. And for the most part, he didn't. Hotch, like many who had been through so many things in his childhood, had learnt how to cope with such things.  
He is also stubborn enough to make it work and fins people he loves, and loved, whom could help him though it simply by being there for him.  
So on nights when he has nightmares, it's always because something he's kept locked up tight inside the box inside his mind has slipped past the lock he's placed on it, oozing though the cracks until its cold, wet, chilling tentacles have wormed itself into his brain, putting him into a pace he can't free himself from, and his tormentors are the very ones he's tried to save or the one's he put away or killed. In some of his more terrifying ones, they team up, slowly destroying him; the victims asking him how he likes it, especially when he knows no one will come to save him. Sometimes at the end of a nightmare like this, the victims will be the one to deliver the final blow. His worst nightmares are where he sees his wife, Haley, and his son Jack being tortured and killed.  
Back when Haley was with him, (alive, with him, married to him, his first love, how me misses her) he would awaken to her. She would be holding him to her body, one arm wrapped around him, the other one over his head so that her hand could run through his hair, soothing his mind with her gentle touch and loving embrace until he was able to fall asleep again. He'd feel safe, protected even if only from his own mind, inside of her loving embrace. After Jack was born, he incorporated a brief visit to his room before returning to Haley's embrace. During the time that they were separated (divorced, put into marshal care, away from him, his safety and hope and family gone) he'd try to visit occasionally, just enough so that the nightmares were kept at bay, but without someone there, they still came more often. Sometimes, he wouldn't sleep at all; just lay there in his room, staring into the darkness.  
After Jack was returned to him, after Haley died, (something he will always blame himself for) it got a little easier. The nightmares were still there, but now, if he ever needed solace, he finds it at the door of Jack's room, looking in to see his son, Haley's last and most perfect legacy to this world, proof of innocence and good and hope; there, sleeping in his bed, his teddy bear wrapped in his arms, his little mouth open and pouring out soft z's as he sleeps. And for a moment, he can feel peace. He can stop seeing faces and crime scenes and killers and corpses and instead, he sees his reason for doing his job: Jack.  
So he'll go inside, kiss his head, and if he wakes up, he'll tell Jack everything's okay, that he just wanted to make sure he was okay. And with that amazing power of understanding, Jack will give his dad a hug, tell him he loves him, and go back to bed. And Hotch will just smile; tell him he loves him too, and that he'll see him in the morning.  
For a moment, he'll linger in the doorway, looking back to his son, burning the image into his mind, so that for the rest of the night he won't have another nightmare; instead, he'll dream of Haley and Jack and himself, all together, having fun, maybe having a picnic or going to the movies or the park, just being together, happy.  
And when he wakes up the next morning, he'll go wake up Jack, make sure he gets ready for the day, send him off to school and get back to making sure that his son won't have to deal with all the dangers that Hotch sees everyday. Because the only reason he has left to continue on in this job, the one that he sees everyday, that makes him feel just a little more happy and like he's done a good job, that he's been doing what he's meant to do, is Jack. So for Jack, he'll go to work and make sure that none of those psychopaths can get to him. And really, Jack's all he needs to tell him that he's done good and that makes everything worth it at the end of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hotch down. Next up, the wonderful Garcia!


	4. Garcia

Penelope Garcia rarely gets nightmares from her job, mostly because she makes it a point to make work a little less dreary and a lot more fun. She goes to work in an awesome outfit and a super cute pair of shoes. Her office is overflowing with personality and a crap load of insane awesomeness that it gives joy and color to the otherwise dreary and depressing world of the BAU. And she tries to spread what joy she has to those she loves, to help those that face the horror that she knows they face out there while she stays behind, safe in her office, surrounded by her babies, her computers, in her domain, as she helps them to solve the case and put away the newest slim ball.  
She even devises a way to keep everything separate from herself, or as best she can. She knows that of all of them, she's the one that is usually the most affected by the case, partly because she lets herself care, actively, knowing that in doing so, she's opening herself up to others. But she knows that she has to, because if she didn't, it wouldn't feel right. It's part of the reason that she goes out to help the victims once a week, trying to do more to help the world. Because she, of all people, knows what it's like to lose the ones you love, the gaping wound it leaves behind, never truly closed, because every day she wakes up is another day that they aren't there, that she can't hug them, tell them she loves them, and that she wishes so badly that they were here, to see how far she's come, and what she's done to help others in her own special way. It helps, knowing that for every person that she helps the team to bag and tag is another family she's saved from grief and despair and pain and loss that she never wants anyone to have to know. It helps her to come to terms with so many things that she sometimes has to do, has to see.  
But that doesn't always stop the pain. Knowing that what she does is saving lives doesn't stop the pain she sees so many people go through as they try to continue on in life, without their daughter, their husband, their wife, their son, their lover, their friend, their home and security and community and identity and so many things that one person can hold in another. It breaks her heart, to know that she has to be the one to sometimes end the innocence of a wife who thinks that her husband is a good, wonderful man, only to find out, after extensive digging into his life, that he's a sadistic, vile, killing machine that does not love her at all. It can't stop her pain of watching so many lives flash before her eyes, as her many babies process the information of all the lives of victims, who are not always so innocent, and killers who didn't seem to have a chance to beat the odds and have love and affection and hope and praise from parents, who either beat them or abandon them. It doesn't end the pain of having to do so many things to so many people just to make sure that the person who did it would never do it again.  
And it certainly didn't stop the nightmares.  
Nightmares that plagued her worse than anything else, on the "rare" (after cases that would leave her shaking, shocked, and the beginning of doubt that there was good inside of everyone) case that made her confront things she'd rather not. She'd see so many things that she didn't want to, things she'd never want to know, and things that went against all her morals and beliefs and made her stomach churn and her breath catch in her throat as she tried hard not to vomit. For her, one of the worst ones she'd remember was the pig farm. He had documented everything, down to the last, bloody detail. After she'd gotten over her shock, she ran for the bathroom, dry heaving a few times before she felt a cold, detached shock overtake her, as she walked over to Rossi, to tell him what he did. The things he did to all those people, how he forced his brother to butcher those men and women, some of them no older than seventeen. Just thinking about it still made her ill, wanting nothing more than to go into her apartment, turn on her videos of her family and just loose herself in the happier times, when serial killers didn't exist, and anything scary could be chased away by her parents, encased in their warm and loving embrace.  
But when she does have the nightmares, the landscape is never the same. Sometimes, it's in the forest, the trees tall, ominous corpses, their dead eyes following her as she runs through them, trying to escape some monster in human flesh that wants to watch the light leave her eyes, and then eat her or dismember her or make her like his coffee: ground up and in the freezer. Other times, she's drowning, hands wrapped around her neck as she is held down by some woman, her face blank, save for wide eyes, mad with rage and insanity. Once, she even dreamed that someone was forcing her to watch all her teammates die, as she sat helpless in a chair, restrained by chains as she cried out to them, begging for them to be spared, to kill her instead, only to be met by eyes that were so cold, so distant, that she felt her dream self freeze up, as she stopped breathing as she looked into those eyes.  
Whenever she awakens from the hell she was trapped within, the first thing she does is do a quick look around: still in her apartment, no strange men inside, the door securely locked and everything where she left it. Next, she'll go into the showers, light a few candles, and get the bath running. By the time she slips inside, she's stopped shaking, but can still feel the terror running through her, as she relaxes in the bath, allowing the healing powers of lavender and sage to work their magic. She reminds herself that they've got the guy, that her friends (the only family she really has anymore, all of them holding a piece of her heart, she loves them so much) are safe, and that if they're hurt, they've been taken care of, and are at home, (or at work, if it's Hotch or Morgan) safe and fine, and that it's okay, it's okay.  
She'll close her eyes and sink into the water, until the water is just past her nose, so she can blow bubbles into the water. When she comes up for air, she'll open her eyes, pushing away the demons that haunt her at night as she drains the bath, watching them all slip away with the water, down the drain to where they belong: with all the waste, far from people, far from her, far from her loved ones, where they can't hurt them. As she washes off, each and every one of them will leave her.  
When she's done, dried off and dressed, she'll look over to her projector, which holds the memories of her parents, flick it on for a few shots, and then turn it off as she heads to bed, with images of her parents to help chase away any more bad dreams. And if that doesn't work, then the photo of her friends certain will.  
Besides, nothing can keep Penelope Garcia down for long, and she's got a team to get back to tomorrow morning. After all, who else can be the wonderful goddess of technology, information and awesomeness besides herself? Besides, she's still got to go flirt with Morgan in the morning and remind him that he owes her a dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful, sexy and smart goddess is now finished. For now. Next up is Rossi.


	5. Rossi

David Rossi isn't usually one for nightmares, despite the life that he's lived. After all, he's one of the founding members of the BAU. He's defied everyone who's ever tried to put him in a box, tell him that he can't do something, that he's not going to be able to be something, meet someone, solve a case, or anything else that they might try to deny him. Hell, if they said he fly of his own power, he'd probably sprout wings just to spite them.  
So really, why would he get nightmares? Why would he wake up at night, bolt out of bed, and usually see three children, soaked in blood, looking at him with wide eyes? Or a woman, with so much life and promise lying on the ground, a bruise around her neck, her dead eyes focused on him, as she whispers out "Why didn't you believe me?" Why can't he stop seeing the tortured and mutilated bodies of men, women, children all around him, with bite marks covering them, as a monster stands before him, roaring with laughter as blood flows from his mouth, his yellow teeth glossed over with blood? Why can't he stop seeing children, the ones that should be protected and helped and sheltered and kept the fuck away from everything evil, vile and dangerous looking at him, their eyes filled with tears and hands, often bloody and damaged and broken, stretched out toward him, begging him for help, for relief, for their lives, only to watch each of them fall dead, as from their bodies rises their tormentors, smirking in cruel satisfaction?  
Why can't he make it stop? Why can't they leave him alone?  
He shouldn't be like this, he'll tell himself. He knows that everyone gets nightmares, but he shouldn't let his job haunt him like this. He should be stronger than this, should be better than this. He shouldn't see all of this, especially with who he is, what he's made himself into. He tries to make them go away, tries to make sure that every ghost he has stops visiting him in his mind, at night, when his mind is the most defenseless, because when he's asleep, he can't escape himself. He can't run from his mind, can't hide from what he's seen, what he's done, what he's forced himself to endure and know. And he won't. He's too stubborn to look away, to be seen as weak, to go against everything that he's ever tried to be.  
But it's much more than that. It's more than just the need to be strong. It's about trying to help the victims, in this strange way of making him look at what they suffered, to hound the sicko about all the details, all the people, about everything they did. Because if he can force himself to stomach the information, then he can at least help them in some way to know that he, at least, knows what they went through, and to offer his condolences, his sorrow, and his promise to make sure that the one who did it to them is put somewhere that they can never harm another one. It's not nearly enough, and it never will be, but it's all he has to offer.  
Still, this small act is not enough to stop the nightmares. It's not enough to stop the screaming, the images, the people lost and the lives forever changed that he's had to bear witness to. And it won't ever be.  
So the nightmares continue. Still, he tries his best to move on. Usually, Mudgie will know something is wrong, and come to him in an instant. That lovable mutt will hop on his bed and, after settling himself at his side (he doesn't sit on his chest anymore, since he knows that he might be thrown off when Dave wakes up), will lick his face, giving little whining sounds, to try and assure him that he's okay, beg for him to be all right. Rossi's hands will bury themselves into the fur, as he pulls Mudgie closer, allowing the incredible calming and healing powers of his canine friend and companion to bring him back down to earth. And somehow, in a way that every pet knows when its owner needs them, will snuggle closer, give pure and total love and affection to him, help David to calm down, to relax, to stop seeing the terror and horror that humanity has to offer, and just be in this moment, alone in his home, with his beloved pet there with him, basking in the complete and wonderful knowledge that right now, everything's okay, he's fine, and that he's made sure that for more people, it's okay now. It's okay.  
When he calms down enough, he'll lie on his bed face up, with Mudgie cuddled next to him, a beloved guardian to protect him from any more nightmares that might come. But they won't, because Mudgie's there, guarding him from any further demons that might try to visit him later that night. He'll go to sleep so that tomorrow he can face down more evil and protect more people, with a personal reminder to get Mudgie more of those dog treats he really likes. After all, Mudgie makes him feel better, and deserves all the love and affection David can give him for protecting him from his worst enemy: himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, Rossi's done. Now onto Prentiss. Wish Natsumi and me luck! Isuzu out.


	6. Prentiss

Emily Prentiss, or Amelia Brenton as she was now known as, was a lot like her long distance family. She had nightmares, just as they did, and like they did. And like them, many of the nightmares she had was a revisit from the past victims or serial killers that she had helped the team to take down.  
But unlike her family, she had more than just these "normal" nightmares that seemed to be exclusive to those who devoted their lives to taking down such creeps.  
She had nightmares about a lot more than that, (not that that wasn't scary or enough to keep her going to a shrink) but there was so much more out there that she knew could get them.  
Things that could happen to them, that could pass the boundaries of "what if" into the "what happened" and could easily expand. People that could so easily destroy those she loved enough to abandon in an effort to keep them safe. People that had become more dear to her than her own blood, who had defied everything to try and save her. These were the people that she feared most for: the ones that had to face down demons that reflected the deepest and darkest parts of humanity. The ones that were part of the line of defense to all those who were innocent, the ones that did their best to try and save people from the monsters in human flesh. These were her family, the ones she feared for the most. She worried about what that bastard Ian Doyle could do to them. Emily Prentiss may be dead, but what she and Lauren Reynolds had done to him would never be erased. Though she knew that rationally he had no reason to go after them, it did not stop her worry. After all, he'd destroyed entire families to get back at her old Interpol team for what they'd done to him and, supposedly, his son.  
She knew, better than anyone, just what he could do, how far his reach was, and of his ability to twist the soul beyond recognition. And as much as it pained her to have to disappear from them, to leave them with an empty casket, many things left unsaid, and the inability to ever be able to help them and so many more scars and nightmares to have, she knew she had to. So long as Emily Prentiss was dead, the Bureau would be safe from him. They had to be.  
But what if they aren't? her mind would treacherously whisper to her. What if he goes after them anyways, just to spite you?  
Her mind, having had to see some of the things that he was capable of, would pull from her own memories all that he was capable of. She would see her teammates, strapped to chairs and he slowly tortured them. Tools that were made especially for this type of work would effortlessly steal screams from them as they suffered his vengeance for her. She would see Garcia, so smart and brilliant, who did not belong in their world of death and pain and evil, strapped to a chair as he forced her to stay conscious while he cut her apart, blood running down her body as she cried, trying her best to be strong. She would see Morgan slowly be burnt all over. She could see Rossi being shot in different places as he slowly bled out. She could see Hotch, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to endure everything that that Doyle bastard could think of. She could see all of them dying, herself forced to watch all her beloveds slowly die, because she had to do her job: bring down Doyle.  
When she finally manages to escape that hell, she bolts up, shaking so hard that she can't even grab one of her disposable phones that she keeps at her bedside for nights like this, when her resolve weakens enough for her to give in. She grabs it, dials a number that she knows by heart, and listens to each ring as she connects to one of the many she left behind. When they pick up, she says nothing, just clutches it to her ear, holding in sobs that want to break free, and slamming the door shut on the words that try desperately to reach them. But she doesn't. Instead, she listens to them, just for a moment, before she shuts the phone closed, reminding herself to throw it away later. Then she'll stare at the ceiling, tracing their faces in the ceiling as she reminds herself why she's away. Reminds herself that she has to protect them from something that they shouldn't have to deal with, something that never should have come back.  
And for the moment, it'll be enough to get her through the day, to keep her going on her lonely way as she stays out of Doyle's reach, and away from the only people that she could honestly call her family. It'll be enough to keep her going, give her the motivation she needs to keep living.  
Because in the end, it's not herself she's living for. It's the people she calls her family that she's living for.


End file.
